


Pretend It's Home

by Need2Scream



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Melancholy, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Need2Scream/pseuds/Need2Scream
Summary: If he didn’t think, if he just let his mind drift, he could almost feel Chromia’s fingers stroking down his spinal relay. He could almost hear the ghost of her voice telling him it was getting late, that he had to get to recharge.
Relationships: Chromia/Ironhide
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Pretend It's Home

The washrack door slid closed behind him. For small mechs like Jazz the rack was roomy enough, but for a big Simfur like Ironhide it was like squeezing into a closet. He didn’t complain out loud though. He had his own washrack and that was a Pit more than the recruits could say.

Shucking off his armor he tossed it in a pile near the door to be cleaned later. His optics were gritty from dirt and smoke. Turning on the spray it took a breem for the water to heat up but once the steam started drifting out the burning in his optics began to lessen. The fall of water was muffled, his audios not having adjusted yet to the lack of artillery barrages and the scream of seekers skimming overhead. His old joints creaked when he stepped forward and his body felt heavy as a mountain.

The spray was a little too hot but he didn’t adjust it, just let it sting and burn along his shoulders and chest. The mud and energon that had snuck in between the seams of his armor began to flake off and swirl down the drain. Dipping his head forward he let the too hot water run down the back of his neck and sting along his spinal relay. Resting his forehead against the wall he closed his optics and counted his breaths. Inside his head the memory of shouted orders and the staccato rap of small arms fire played over and over like Blaster and those stupid songs he liked to listen to.

He didn’t try to force the memory away having learned eons ago the easiest way to settle the chaos was to let his mind drift where it would. The recent memory of ground shaking explosions morphed into a memory from so long ago it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t about the war.

He used to come home after long shifts at the mine and stand in the washrack like this. After an orn of deafening work of controlled demolitions he’d always dragged himself back to that tiny flat with burning optics and audios that could barely make out a shout. The fine dust choked his intakes and turned his, then rust red, armor a pale shade of brown. Not even his frame had gotten away without a dusting. He’d always gone straight to the washrack to get rid of that choking coating. That washrack had been about as small as the one he was in now. That whole flat had probably been as big as his current quarters. It hadn’t felt that small though. Not with Chromia there.

Her shift had usually ended half a joor after his. He’d stand under the water and wait to hear the door open. After she closed the door there was that jangle of credits and her water canister being pulled out of subspace and set on the small rickety table they’d salvaged from the trash. The floor always creaked in that one spot two steps before the washrack door and she’d knock twice and yell, _Is there any hot water left for the rest of us?_ And then she’d walk in and her armor would clank against his as she tossed it in the corner.

There was always that cold draft that preceded her and then her warm frame pressed against his. She’d complain that he spent more time in the water than a Polyhexian but she’d wrap her arms around his waist and put her head on his shoulder and not move.

Eventually one of them would reach for the soap but the washrack was so small they didn’t have to part. Her strong fingers would rub over his shoulders kneading out the kinks and tight cables. He’d keep one arm around her waist and rub her back with the other hand and steal a kiss or three until the water started to run cold.

Like it was now. Blinking his optics open it was another moment before he lifted his head. His spark ached and the small washrack felt too big without Chromia’s frame pressed tight against his. Turning off the water he rested his head against the wall and stood dripping in the quiet. If he didn’t think, if he just let his mind drift, he could almost feel Chromia’s fingers stroking down his spinal relay. He could almost hear the ghost of her voice telling him it was getting late, that he had to get to recharge.

Drawing in a deep breath he opened his optics again and lifted his head. His joints ached, the hot water not enough anymore to work out the stress in his old body. Moving slow, he grabbed a towel and wiped off most of the water before leaving the washrack. Cool air slithered in when he opened the door. His quarters were dark and quiet. Chromia was the one who always turned on a light before she joined him.

He hadn’t seen Chromia even through a video screen in a centicycle. It had been an eon since he’d felt her spark beat against his. In that small flat they’d shared just outside of the mines she’d never been more than a few steps away.

Standing in the dark he let his mind drift, let his imagination hold on to the small flat before the protests, before the riots, before the assassinations. In the cool dark silence he tried to remember how her laugh had filled the space, how it seemed to soak into everything and brighten the drab dust stained walls. She’d always shared the latest gossip from the south mines while they readied dinner. Pans clanking against the heating pad and the thunk of a knife chopping whatever was in cold storage; meat or vegetables. Two beeps when the heating pad reached the correct temperature and then the sizzle and pop of whatever was cooking. Her smaller fingers sliding between his as she complained about the foremech.

A ping on his comm shattered the misty memory. “Prime,” he rumbled, his voice hoarse from shouting. He walked four steps to his small dresser and pulled out his spare set of armor. The memory of Chromia’s voice whispering something he couldn’t remember clearly.

“Aerial scouts report the Decepticons are mobilizing. Scramble strike teams.”

“Copy.” The last piece of armor snapped in place and he made it to the door in three steps. By the time the battle was through the hot water would be back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading/reviewing!


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